


i am free whenever you’re in front of me (all i need is you)

by opaldawn



Series: i don't want the world (i just want your half) [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (in a physical sense lol), Competent Podcast Women in Love, F/F, Flirting, Heists, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Medication, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26699926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opaldawn/pseuds/opaldawn
Summary: Her arm curls around Buddy’s shoulders, protectively. She doesn’t say anything, but the message is clear-this is what I’ll do to anyone who hurts you, you’re mine, and I’m yours, and you’re safe with me because I love you more than anything else in this world.Many happenings in the past hour have left her breathless, but none so sweet and tender and smoldering as the moment they share just then, pressed flush against each other, Buddy’s hands still cuffed behind her.
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay
Series: i don't want the world (i just want your half) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952839
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	i am free whenever you’re in front of me (all i need is you)

**Author's Note:**

> definitely not writing this to cope with anything that may or may not have happened in an episode of a podcast. anyways, these space lesbians have consumed my mind ever since i got into penumbra a few months ago- i hope you guys like this! 
> 
> trigger warnings for violence & injury, discussion of murder and knives, and sensible use of pain medication. kudos and comments so so very appreciated. title from moscow by autoheart

The steel of the guard’s blaster bites a frigid circle into the back of Buddy’s neck, startling her when it first touches and then again when she realizes the predicament she’s found herself in. Her heart thrums like one of those long-nosed birds she’d seen once in a sanctuary, and she turns her head almost imperceptibly, looking right away for a getaway. Nothing catches her eye at first. She’d studied the floorplan meticulously, she hadn’t been expecting a secret door or staircase, but she’s practiced enough at what she does that even a loose floorboard or particularly unsteady light fixture could have been an out. Before she has a chance to really examine her surroundings, though, the security guard— she can see him out of the corner of her eye, now, a large, scowling man— has grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her off balance.

“I’m assuming you’re aware, ma’am,” he says, gun still at the ready, “that this area of the mayor’s home is not open to visitors at the time.”

“Apologies, darling,” says Buddy, mind racing for a cover story. “I’m afraid I’m a bit lost. Now, if you’d please, lower that gun just a bit? I’m just delivering a message from—” she recalls a name she remembers from the tabloids she glimpsed this morning— “the Regulus family, and I don’t believe they’d appreciate any interference.”

“Is that so,” says the guard, mouth a thin line. “And the message was...?” 

“In loose terms, an apology for the behavior that came to pass at last week’s gala, and a promise of full reimbursement for all damages. You’ll understand that I can’t tell you any more, I’m sure.” It’s a lie that’s worked many times before. Though Buddy’s specialty remains organization and planning, nobody could say that she isn’t quick on her feet, and she’s studied the manners of the aristocracy enough to learn their light, diplomatic ways common to practically every planet in the galaxy. 

But even the great Buddy Aurinko, a full half of the greatest crime empire around, can’t account for everything. Things as the security guard’s smile curling upwards at the sides, or his smug voice when he replies. 

“That’s very interesting,” he says. “I’m sure the mayor will be delighted to hear such a thing,  _ especially  _ seeing as he’s been in mourning for several days over the death of the Regulus patriarch. Now—” Buddy feels the unmistakable press of handcuffs, hears them click shut with a sound that seems to echo through the empty hall— “if you’d be kind enough to accompany me to somewhere we can discuss this matter further.”

She’s guided through hallways, down several service staircases, until she’s certain she’s underground. When she slows for a second on the pretense of catching her breath, and starts to reach towards one of her many secret pockets, she’s met instantly with the blaster against her skin once more. She tries her best to memorize the path she’s taken, but it’s tricky— the building seems as though it’s been built specifically to confuse those walking through it. And perhaps it has. She doubts that she’s the first to have attempted an invasion of the mansion, not with the Hephaestus Blade and, surely, countless more treasures, tucked away in its center gallery. Though 243 Ida isn’t a particularly affluent asteroid, its mayor has had a legendary penchant for what those more favorable would call ‘collection’, what others would deride as ‘hoarding’. 

Eventually, she’s pushed into a room with a low ceiling, bare save for a desk with a fluorescent lamp upon it. Though she knows that, logically, the room wouldn’t have been built specifically for storing would—be thieves, she can’t think of anything else it could be used for. The dim lighting, the narrow, sloping walls, the dull rumble of the generator outside— it all combines to give Buddy a terribly eerie feeling.

The guard steps out of the room, and as his one hand moves to lock the door, Buddy sees his other tend toward the pocket with his comms in it. She presses one ear against the door, straining to listen. 

“-sneaking around near the center chamber,” he says. “All stations report in. Over.”

There’s a second of silence in which all Buddy can hear is the pounding in her chest. Then the guard’s comms crackles back to life.

“Thoms, you idiot! Are you sure nobody entered or left the room?” He sounds far more upset now, and Buddy hazards a guess at the news that he’s receiving. “All right, all right, got it. Requesting backup, if any can be spared— she seems like the type to try and cause trouble. Over.” 

Another several moments of quiet.  _ Poor Thoms, _ Buddy thinks.  _ He didn’t have a chance at catching her, not without being able to see through walls and in a full circle at all times.  _ Which means. Which means she’s still got half a chance at getting out of here.

Which means her Vespa’s still at large in the building. Presumably with the Knife, if her night was going any better than Buddy’s.

Then— the sound of a key in the door. Buddy moves backwards quickly, not wanting to have been caught eavesdropping, and leans against the desk, trying her best to look dejected. 

The guard’s got two others with him— a short, burly, bespectacled man, already cracking her knuckles, and a thin woman with a souped-up blaster and a shinier badge than the others. 

“Here’s how it’s going to go, Red,” says Glasses, her voice sounding exactly how Buddy would have expected. “You’ve got somethin’ on you that we don’t think belongs to you, does it? You’re gonna hand it over, and if you do it nice and quick, we’ll get you over to the IPD in one piece. Capiche?”

Buddy doesn’t have as long to think as she’d like— she never does, in situations like this— but she realizes rather fast that, as her mother used to say, honesty is the least painful policy. “I’m afraid I don’t have what you’re looking for,” she says, and then diverges from her mother’s advice. “Nor do I know what that might be. I came here for some _ one, _ not some _ thing _ .”

None of the guards seem convinced— Buddy’s not a psychologist, but the fact that one grabs her by the shoulders while another begins patting her down thoroughly seems a rather clear indication of that much. They search her for several minutes, everywhere a large, fabled knife could be concealed and some places that make her wonder whether they’re unclear about the knife’s size or whether they’re just toying with her at this point. After a while, though, the higher-ranking one steps back, shaking her head in disappointment and anger.

“She doesn’t have it,” she says. “McCracken, did you see her drop it anywhere when you were bringing her in?”

McCracken, the one currently testing the flexibility of the bones in her arm, shakes his head. “She’s been cuffed since I found her,” he says. “Unless her grand plan was to break in just to  _ relocate  _ the Hepher, there’s someone else in on the job.”

Buddy had known they’d get there eventually, known that anyone hired to guard such a mansion wouldn’t be incompetent. Still, the idea of Vespa, still free in the mansion, safe, unknown, had been a remarkable comfort up until now. “Nobody’s here with me,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “I told you, I didn’t come here to steal anything. Only to talk with the mayor’s wife—“

“Run the odds for me, Sharpe,” interrupts Glasses, “of two forced entries, on the same night, same time, both skulking around in the same goddamn hallway.” It’s a rhetorical question, of course, but Sharpe— the shiny-badged one— doesn’t seem to notice that, and opens their mouth to answer before realizing.

“I know it might seem unlikely, sir,” says Buddy, directly to Glasses this time. She hopes that, even if she can’t convince them, she can stall. Without a plan, she feels rather helpless, but she trusts Vespa. With the job, with her life, with the hundreds of times they’ve had each other’s backs before. “But I really did come here on my own. I just-“

Glasses shakes her head, putting her hand right up against Buddy’s trachea. “Last chance,” she says. “Who were you with tonight?”

The time for stalling is past, then, it seems. Buddy does a quick mental calculation, then lunges forwards, aiming her elbow for her captor’s chest.

She misses, and the big guard from before, McCracken, moves towards her. She hears the sickening crunch of bone on bone before she feels it. When she does, she wishes she could go back to simply having heard it. Her jaw might be broken, she supposes, but she thinks it’s more likely dislocated. After enough field injuries, now that black and blue goes along with green as a form of payment for a job, she’s gotten awfully good at telling the difference. 

Most of the time, when she’s sneaking around or playing intimidating, she’s stoic nearly to a fault. Now, however, is not the time— she started the altercation specifically to call attention to herself. So she cries out, loud, an aching sound half—fabricated from deep in her throat. Fortunately, the building doesn’t seem to be soundproofed at all, and her yell echoes around the room and hall. Unfortunately, this only eggs the guards on further. 

She’s nothing if not a capable fighter, but handcuffed and thrice outnumbered, it’s not long before she’s on her back. The ceiling in the room is nothing special, but counting the water stains on it helps take her mind off the unmistakable feeling of several of her ribs being fractured with a single blow from a thick-soled shoe. 

“I’ll ask you again,” says Glasses, foot raised. “Who else is in this—”

She never finds out the answer to her question, or, Buddy supposes, she finds out all too well. The door swings open,  _ clunk _ ing against the wall, and as Buddy blinks, eyes slightly blurry with pain, the figure above her seems to disappear. The world around her moves in a sort of distorted slow-motion, and she watches from her supine position as Vespa withdraws her knife from the man’s back, then tosses it— Buddy can’t focus her vision enough to watch it, but the wet thud tells her all she needs to know about where it landed. Something pings as slightly odd, in the part of her mind that’s always scanning, alert, observing, but she can’t quite place what it is. 

There’s one guard left standing, then, and Buddy notes with a smile that this is where a lesser criminal would stop to deliver some cutting monologue about what happens to people who hurt those that she loves. But Vespa knows all too well how important every second is, in a business like this, and Buddy just watches, captivated, as he reaches for his gun. He doesn’t even have it drawn fully from its holster before, with a flash of silver and a spurt of red, he’s on the ground with his compatriots. 

Buddy closes her eyes and breathes out, relieved, though her chest and head scream in protest. As the action snaps back into real time, the first thing she’s aware of is a gentle hand, right on the back of her neck, right where the gun had pressed into her. Then she’s being  _ kissed,  _ deeply, and she can feel the fear and relief and urgency matching hers in each one of the breaths Vespa shares with her.

Vespa’s lips are cool, slightly chapped, missing the black lipstick she wears on days off when they don’t need to worry about being recognized. Her arm curls around Buddy’s shoulders, protectively. She doesn’t say anything, but the message is clear-  _ this is what I’ll do to anyone who hurts you, you’re mine, and I’m yours, and you’re safe with me because I love you more than anything else in this world. _

Many happenings in the past hour have left her breathless, but none so sweet and tender and smoldering as the moment they share just then, pressed flush against each other, Buddy’s hands still cuffed behind her back. Vespa’s still got that look in her eyes, that one that has Buddy falling in adrenaline-coursing love all over again, the one she gets after (among others) a good bloody fight.

After a minute, though, her body wins the battle against her mind. “Vespa, darling,” she says, words coming out a little bit slurred, twisted. “As much as it pains me to ask”— and isn’t that the truth, in more ways than one— “they’ve done a bit of a number on my jaw, and while I’d love to resume this course of action at a later point, I think it might need to wait until I’ve had a moment or two to mend.”

Vespa makes a sharp sound, her brow furrowing. “God, Bud, I’m sorry. I shoulda got down here faster, shouldn’t have— you know— jumped you like that.” She pulls back, looking distraught for a second, and Buddy knows her well enough to recognize the look she gets when she’s compartmentalizing. “Dislocated, I think, I can fix that pretty fast back at the van— they get you anywhere else?” 

“Ribs,” Buddy says with a wince as that particular part of her sends out a sharp distress signal. Vespa’s been slicing through the handcuff chain with a plasma cutter as they speak, then working the cuffs loose. “But darling, I’m all right, please don’t feel guilty. You’ve saved me once again, haven’t you? We’ve done it again, and that’s what matters.”

“Hah,” Vespa snorts, curling her hands around Buddy’s wrists and gently massaging at the red marks left by the cuffs, “touch wood, or— or somethin’. We’re not out of the woods yet, and as nice as it sounds to get you undressed for me in a mansion, I think we gotta get out of here before I can deal with your ribs. Can you stand?”

She can, with Vespa’s arm curled around her waist. The escape goes as fortuitously as the heist itself hadn’t, with the two sneaking out a basement door, not even needing to pose as anyone in particular. They’re already on Vespa’s hovercycle, Buddy’s arms around her waist and her head tucked against her shoulder, before she thinks to ask her,

“We got what we came in for, then?”

“Sure did.” The pride in Vespa’s voice is unmistakable, and Buddy delights in it, in every display of happiness from her love. She reaches into her boot (shiny, jet-black, thick-soled, with gleaming silver buckles) and withdraws the Knife of Hephaestus.

The look on Vespa’s face as she displays the knife to Buddy is… an interesting one. At first Buddy thinks it’s just a carry-over of her pride, thrill, and relief from the successful heist, but then she notices a hint of something nearly— reverent. A look that, she realizes, she’s seen before in Vespa’s eyes, but directed towards herself. She laughs quietly.

Vespa hardly seems to notice, tracing her finger up and down the dull edge of the blade. “Isn’t she a beaut?” she says, not really expecting a response, but Buddy humors her. 

“Lovely,” she says with a grin. “And, ah, remind me— what we plan to do with it?”

Vespa’s bright-green eyebrows shoot up. “ _ Do  _ with it? Bud, this knife is a legend! It’s s’posed to be the knife used to murder Command-Senator Sarai back in the 24th century, and not to mention-“ She goes on like this for nearly a minute, but Buddy’s not really listening. She’s hit upon what seemed just a little amiss, back in the interrogation room when Vespa had rescued her.

“Vespa, dear,” she interjects when she can, “if the knife is so magnificent, why didn’t you use it on the guards?” She’d seen Vespa tuck two of her own knives, carbon-steel blades and marbled green grips, back into her belt after the fact.

Vespa rolls her eyes as though it’s the silliest thing she’s ever heard. “What,” she says, humoring her, “and get it all dirty?”

*

They arrive back at their hovertruck, parked in an out-of-the-way area under a highway, as the sun sinks below the horizon. The rest of the trip back had been smooth, Buddy clinging to Vespa’s back as she drove recklessly, debriefing and discussing the heist, the knife, and their lives. Now, though, she’s been left on her own in the bed of the truck for a few minutes, and her injuries are vying for a spot at the front of her mind again.

After some time, Vespa returns with painkillers and water. Buddy’s glad to see she doesn’t have any more of her heavy-duty equipment with her— though she’s in enough pain to bother her, she trusts Vespa to know what she’s doing, and is reassured to know she won’t need any clunky casts or bandages. 

Vespa slides a pillow under Buddy’s head, then holds the painkiller up to her mouth, opening a bottle of water. “Open,” she says. Buddy considers protesting, saying that she’s perfectly capable of taking a few pills, but decides to indulge for the time being. She lets Vespa prop her head up against her knee as she agreeably swallows the pill with a sip of water. It’s nice, she thinks, being taken care of. Nice to know that Vespa doesn’t expect anything in return, and to know that Buddy’ll do the same for her, next time she’s injured or hurting.

“You’re a great patient, hon,” says Vespa with a little smirk, and Buddy grins up at her. She places her hands gently on Buddy’s chest, and Buddy winces preemptively before realizing that the lightness of her dear doctor’s touch caused no pain. 

“Breathe for me, Bud?” 

Buddy’s confused- she’s heard those words from her before, but usually in the context of panic, of an unbearable loudness in her head. The painkillers are taking effect by now, too, not making it any easier for her to understand what Vespa’s asking for, but she takes several deep breaths, in and out, as Vespa softly feels around on her chest. Buddy marvels, not for the first time, at Vespa’s hands, their skill and versatility, not an hour ago having been nearly an extension of her deadly weapon, now so tenderly healing.

“Looks like you’ve got a few fractured ribs,” remarks Vespa finally, “but your lungs feel fine. Nothing punctured, anyway.” She closes her eyes for a second. “Now for the hard part.”

Buddy wants to ask what the hard part is, but the medicine Vespa’s given her is strong, and though she hasn’t quite forgotten how to speak yet, she feels awfully tired. Tired, and her mouth aches, and she trusts the woman above her so much. Words seem rather useless at this point.

Vespa’s hand finds her cheek, her other coming up to hook several fingers just inside Buddy’s mouth. “Sorry, Bud, sorry, this isn’t going to feel great—“ something in Buddy’s muddled brain protests, she remembers this, she knows this is nice— but then, once again, she hears before she feels— a loud pop, a grating, sharp pain— but oh, once the pain lessens, her face feels so much more in place. 

Vespa withdraws her fingers from Buddy’s mouth, looking a little sheepish, a little guilty, mostly just glad to be over with it. She’s the most beautiful woman Buddy’s ever seen, and this should come as no surprise after nearly three years together, but it does, it always does, every time she meets her eyes or sees her mussed hair in the morning. She tries to tell her so, but somehow ends up tracing two fingers down the curve of Vespa’s jaw, over her lips, her cheek, the back of her neck.

Vespa seems to understand; she leans down and pressed her lips so gently, so softly, to Buddy’s. It’s nothing like their frantic embrace earlier. It’s a promise, of healed ribs and future jobs, of rising in the morning next to each other, of future kisses, and stories about knives, and making a home.

She’s set up a makeshift cot on the ground— when did she do that? well, Buddy’s conscious enough to realize she’s been rather out of it for a while— which she half-drags, half-hoists Buddy over to. No small task, since Buddy’s a good foot taller than her and is nearly twice her weight, but the two make it there eventually.

“What’s the prognosis, doctor,” she mumbles, and she really has no clue how she managed to come up with that word.

“Bed rest,” says Vespa. “Three or four days off your feet, and then a few more without anything strenuous. Gotta breathe deep, too, or you could get pneumonia. Don’t worry, doll, I’ll wait on you hand and foot, night and day.” She throws her a grin. “Anything you need, let me know.”

“J’st one thing,” says Buddy, waving her hand just a little. Vespa nods, and Buddy laughs, the pain it causes her drowned out by the brilliance of the smile Vespa gives her. She pats the cot beside her. “C’mere, doctor. Come cuddle.”

And she does.

**Author's Note:**

> as mentioned, first time writing fic in a really long time. if you can spare a few seconds to write one, any comments would make my day!
> 
> thanks to sam in the penumby podcast discord for this incredible idea that wouldn’t leave my brain. women be stealing


End file.
